


Twin High-Maintenance Machines

by valenstyne



Category: Renegades (1989)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Artistic License, Artistic License - Police Procedure, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5889448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valenstyne/pseuds/valenstyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bye, chief,” you say. You don’t really want to let him go. “See you.”</p><p>“I hope so,” Hank says, and hangs up before you can ask if he’s serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twin High-Maintenance Machines

**Author's Note:**

> I never post WIP's but maybe this will encourage me to actually finish this damn fic sometime this century. (The smut will be in chapter two, I promise.) For some reason I am convinced everyone will hate this because it's written in second person but that's what felt right and it's waaay too late to change now. So. 
> 
> …also, I know I know, another fic where they hook up post-movie? How original! Ah well.

You’re not sure how long it is after Marino hits the ground before you manage to get to your feet, probably just a few seconds even though it feels like years. The air is hazy with smoke, and you have to squint your stinging eyes to focus on Hank’s blurry figure. He’s sitting up, so he’s still alive thank _Christ_ , and the only clear thought in your head is that you have to get to him _right now_. You stumble towards him but stop short when you reach Marino’s body. Moving on autopilot, you reach for the lance, then yank your hand back when flames lick your fingers. Your first instinct is to leave it where it is—fuck it, Hank is more important—but no, you can’t, because the damn thing is the reason Hank is in these godforsaken woods at all. Well. That and his brother. Fuck, you have so much to make up for. Goddammit, McHenry, focus. Get the lance. Okay.

Your hands are clumsy and shaking with adrenaline as you crouch to grasp the lance around the middle where it’s not burning and pry it free of Marino’s stiffening fingers. Even through the noise of the surrounding fire you can hear the wet, sick sound when you wrench it out of his chest. Thankfully the ground is damp from recent rain, probably the only reason the whole ranch isn’t a blazing inferno right now, so you drop the lance and smother the flames with a couple of handfuls of mud and pinestraw. Holding the charred lance gingerly by the end that’s sticky with blood, you clutch a tree for support and pull yourself to your feet, looking at Hank. He hasn’t moved. You stagger over and sink down in front of him.

“Hey,” you say hoarsely. “You okay?”

Hank nods. “You?”

“I’ll live.” You hold out the lance. Hank takes it, turns it over in his hands, inspecting the damage. His face is unreadable, and you feel a stab of panic. You don’t really know why the lance so important to Hank, just that it is, and sweet Jesus you’re gonna hate yourself if you’ve destroyed something _else_ he cares about. “Is it—” Your voice comes out small and wobbly, and you stop, swallow hard and try again. “Is it okay? I’m sorry it got burned—”

Hank looks up like he’s just remembered you’re there. “It’s fine, Buster.”

You blow out a long breath. “Good. I guess those old Indians knew what they were doing, huh?” That’s such a dumbass thing to say that you wince hearing yourself. Hank doesn’t answer. His breathing sounds ragged, and you blink sweat and ash out of your eyes and look him over carefully. The bloodstain on his sleeve doesn’t seem to be spreading much, thankfully—the bullet must have just grazed him—but you know from recent experience how painful a bullet wound is. You fumble for your handkerchief but it’s already wrapped around his hand. “Shit,” you mutter, trying to remember your first-aid training. “Your arm—”

“It’s not that bad.”

You’re getting sick of this stoic bullshit. “We gotta get you to a hospital, man.”

Hank shakes his head. “If we go home, my father—” His eyes widen and he breaks off with a sharp, choked noise, covers his face with his good hand. His shoulders tremble and you realize he’s _crying_ , oh God, he’s crying because his father is dead and it’s your fucking fault.

“ _Shit._ Hey…hey.” You reach for him, pull him into an awkward hug. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Hank’s injured hand is clenched white-knuckled around the lance and you can see blood dripping off his fingers. You tug the lance gently out of his grip, murmuring “I got it, it’s okay, it’s okay,” which is fucking stupid since obviously it is not fucking okay. 

Hank shudders, sags against your shoulder, silent except for the muffled gasps of his breath. You cling to him, feeling small and miserable and helpless. The fire crackles around the edge of the clearing and you find yourself thinking absurdly that maybe the whole world is burning, maybe you and Hank are the only people left, until those thoughts are mercifully interrupted by the unmistakable sound of approaching sirens. 

“Hey, you hear that?” you ask, dizzy with relief. “Somebody’s coming, chief, they’ll find us, it’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.” Hank tenses in your arms. You hold him tighter, listening to the sirens coming down the drive, wondering if you’re headed for a hospital or prison.

Everything gets a little blurry after that. The paramedics find you pretty quick, pull Hank away from you and hustle him into an ambulance that leaves immediately. You hear yourself declaring that you’re fine, which apparently isn’t convincing since they insist on giving you oxygen and bandaging wounds you hadn’t even realized you had before turning you over to your colleagues from the police department. A cop you kind of recognize takes the lance from you and leads you to a car, and you’re fully expecting to be slammed into the hood and cuffed—what would that be, the second time tonight? Third?—but he just helps you into the backseat and says something about taking you to the station. You nod, thinking dimly that this has been the longest goddamn day of your life, and close your eyes.

When your eyes open, you’re at the station. The same cop—you’re pretty sure his name is Hayden or Holden or something like that—takes you to an interrogation room and gives you a paper cup filled with water. You drink it gratefully, trying to wash the taste of smoke and blood out of your mouth. He sits down on the other side of the table and turns on a tape recorder, leans back and waits. You take a deep breath and start talking. 

You talk for a long time. You talk about Marino, about your brilliant plan to infiltrate his gang and find the cop who was working for him and how that went to hell. You talk about Mike, and if you get kind of choked up you think you hide it well. You don’t talk about Hank, or at least you talk about him as little as possible, make it sound like everything that went down was your idea, your fault. Which is pretty much the truth, really. You explain about the lance, although you don’t mention burying it in Marino’s chest, figuring that if it’s held as a murder weapon Hank will probably never get it back. You wonder if Hank’s okay.

Hayden, if that’s his name, mostly listens, only interrupting a couple of times to ask questions about dates and places. You can’t tell if he believes your story. If you were him, you probably wouldn’t. When you’re done he clicks the tape recorder off and says you’re free to go, asks if you need a ride home. You say you’ll call a cab, too exhausted to even be surprised that you’re not under arrest.

There’s no unmarked police car outside your door now, which is probably a relief to your neighbors. You pay the cab driver with the handful of bills left in your jacket pocket and pat yourself down to find your keys. Naturally, you drop them twice before you even get your damn door open. As you finally manage to let yourself in you try to remember how long it’s been since you were last home. Something like five days, you think. Good thing you don’t have any pets. You really need a shower, not to mention food, but you’re so tired your vision is blurring and it’s all you can do to kick your shoes off before falling into bed. Your last semi-coherent thought is that you want to see Hank again, and then you pass out.

You wake to the sound of the phone ringing. Late-afternoon sunlight streams in through your bedroom window, and a glance at the clock tells you it’s after four. Every muscle in your body aches as you drag yourself out of bed and into the living room, press the phone to your ear and mutter a bleary “Hello?”

“Buster?” It’s Hank. 

You are instantly awake and thanking God you never bothered having your number unlisted. “Yeah, it’s me—how are you, are you all right? Are you still in the hospital?”

“I’m fine,” Hank says. “They let me out. How are you?”

“Been worse,” you say. “What about the cops, they been bothering you?”

“I gave them a statement. They said in a few days I can have the lance and—” His voice wavers a tiny bit. “And take my father’s body home.”

“Jesus,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry, man.”

There’s a pause, and then he says, “I don’t blame you, Buster.”

You can’t see why not. Shit, _you_ certainly blame you. Nice of him to say it, though. 

“Anyway,” Hank says, sounding normal again, “I just wanted to check on you before I left and make sure you were all right.”

Under ordinary circumstances, that would probably annoy you. Now, it makes you smile. “Good to know somebody’s lookin’ out for me, chief. And I’m really glad you’re okay.” Glad might not be a strong enough word. You doubt there _is_ a strong enough word.

“I’m glad you’re okay, too,” Hank says, and then, suddenly, “Do you want my address?” 

“Yes! Yeah, yeah I do, let me—” You wedge the phone against your shoulder and scrabble through the junk on the coffee table until you find a pencil and a scrap of paper, spread the paper on your knee and carefully copy down the address and phone number Hank gives you.

“Send me a Christmas card,” he says. You're honestly not sure if he's joking. “Goodbye, Buster.”

“Bye, chief,” you say. You don’t really want to let him go. “See you.”

“I hope so,” Hank says, and hangs up before you can ask if he’s serious.

Things work out a lot better than you expect, after that. You get questioned a few more times, but you don’t get charged with anything or even fired. You suspect it’s the department’s way of trying to keep you from telling the papers about Mike and Ransom. Not that you would, certainly not now that you’ve had time to think about it. You remember when your father went to prison—giant headlines like CORRUPTION SCANDAL ROCKS PHILADELPHIA POLICE, reporters calling the house to hound your mother for comments, your father’s face on the five o’clock news—and you don’t give a shit about Ransom but you wouldn’t do that to Mike’s family. You used to go over to his house after school because both your parents were always working, and his wife would feed you chocolate chip cookies while you did your homework at their kitchen table. His daughter was in college then, and when she was around she’d help you with your math. It’s bad enough that Mike’s dead. Let them believe he died a hero. 

You think about Hank a lot. You hope he’s okay. More than once you want to call him, and a couple of times you even reach for the phone before talking yourself out of it. He’s probably busy, he’s probably with his family (oh God, does he still _have_ any family? damn it, you should have asked), he probably doesn’t want to talk to you right now. You wonder if he’s thinking about you at all.

When Captain Blalock summons you into his office to inform you he’s giving you some time off with pay and suggests that you might want to spend it somewhere other than Philly—somewhere, say, where the papers won’t be interested in Mike and Ransom—you’re totally okay with that. Maybe it makes you part of the cover-up, but getting out of town for a while sounds like a goddamn good idea. You make sure your agreement sounds grudging, though, and give Blalock an obligatory suspicious look on your way out of his office. Hey, you have a reputation as a troublemaker to uphold, here.

On the drive home, you consider vacation destinations. You could visit your mom upstate and lie to her about why you haven’t settled down with a nice Catholic girl. You could go to Vegas and lose too much money at blackjack. You could lie around on a beach somewhere and ogle surfers while drinking yourself stupid. Or you could visit Hank. No, no you couldn’t, McHenry, what are you thinking? He hasn’t even called you and it’s been weeks, why the fuck would you think he’d do anything but break your neck if you turned up on his doorstep uninvited? But he _did_ give you his address, it's not like he's hiding from you. And you really, really want to see him again.

Fine. Fuck it. You’re going to South Dakota.


End file.
